The Question of the Felonious Friend (18 page)

“One last thing,” I said. “Jim, do you have any idea where Tyler would have gotten enough money to tip a convenience store clerk one hundred dollars at least five times a week?”

There was no sign of surprise or concern from Jim. In fact, he snorted a small laugh. “I have no clue. You'd have to ask Molly.”

“Molly Brandt?” I asked. “The young woman in your therapy group?”

Jim nodded again and raised his eyes to meet mine, which I assumed signified some importance. “She is Tyler's girlfriend,” he said.

Twenty-One

“Tyler has a girlfriend?”
Mason Clayton seemed both surprised and oddly pleased at the suggestion. “Are you sure?”

We sat in the living room of Mason's house, a relatively small four-bedroom Cape Cod that had been furnished years before from the look of the pieces on display. I could assume only that much of the contents of the house, along with the building itself, had been inherited from Mason, Sandy, and Tyler's parents.

“No, I am not sure,” I said. Ms. Washburn winced a tiny bit. Perhaps I should have taken into account Mason's pleasure at hearing what Jim had told me and softened the blow. “I am merely reporting what I have been told without having had time to research the point to an objective conclusion.”

“Samuel means we haven't been able to ask Molly about it yet,” Ms. Washburn said. “Can we ask Tyler?”

After Jim O'Malley had left the Starbucks following a brief conclusion to our conversation, Ms. Washburn had met me there and we had agreed it was best to talk to Mason and Tyler again, if that was possible. Ms. Washburn had called Mason, who reported they were free and suggested we drive to their home in Franklin Township and discuss what we had found out so far.

In the car, I had to admit to Ms. Washburn that this wasn't very much.

“This question has been a very confusing one,” I said. “We began with the idea that Richard either was or was not Tyler's friend, since that was what we had been commissioned to answer. And I still believe we rushed to an answer. We did not have definitive proof to give to Tyler.”

“Does that matter at this point?” she asked, watching the road. “We've determined that Tyler didn't shoot Richard, so does the answer to Tyler's question really have any impact on what we're doing now?”

I am usually fairly adept at committing my thoughts to words, but even that was becoming elusive now. “I think it might be, but I don't know why,” I said. “Are you going to stop the divorce proceedings?”

Ms. Washburn's eyes widened and her grip on the steering wheel visibly tightened. “Samuel!” she barked. “Where did that come from?”

Clearly, she was not asking where my words had originated; as with all such things, they were the verbalization of a thought. What Ms. Washburn must have meant, I decided, was that I had changed topics of conversation too quickly. It would not be the first time.

“Please excuse me,” I said. “The thought has been claiming my attention for some time and I thought it best to express it so we could go back to concentrating on the question. I did not mean to offend you, Ms. Washburn.”

She relaxed noticeably, loosening her grip and trying to smile. “There are times I really wish you would call me Janet,” she said.

“If it is important to you, I will try to change my pattern.”

Ms. Washburn laughed lightly and shook her head a little. “It's not necessary. I know you're more comfortable this way. In answer to your question, Samuel, I don't know what's going on with my marriage right now. Simon and I have been talking without yelling at each other and that's good, but we're still the same people we were before and I don't know if that's going to change.”

It was extremely unlikely they would become different people, but I was certain Ms. Washburn knew that, so I asked instead, “When do you think you will know? About the divorce.”

“I don't know, Samuel. I'm sorry. I know uncertainty bothers you.”

That was true, but in this case I felt divided by my knowledge of Simon Taylor's having had at least one other woman in his home while he was separated from his wife. If I told Ms. Washburn I could hurt her and overstep my boundaries as her employer. If I did not and she chose not to tell me of her decision-making process, she could easily make a serious mistake because she would not have vital information. It was a frustrating conundrum, but for the moment I decided Ms. Washburn's emotions should take precedence over my own. “I will survive … Janet,” I said.

She wrinkled her nose. “Go back to Ms. Washburn,” she said. “It doesn't sound natural the other way. Now about the question. What about the S and S die? I can't figure out why it's important that Richard had it in his hand, or at least on his body, when he was shot, but I get the feeling it is.”

“You are correct up to a point,” I told her. “I think Richard had the Tenduline with him at all times, that it was a talisman for him as it would be for many role-playing gamers. He went to great trouble to obtain it, which would indicate it held a lot of significance for him.”

“So then it's not important that he had it with him,” Ms. Washburn said.

“No, but as you pointed out, the Tenduline was discovered away from Richard's body but close enough that we can be fairly sure it was Richard who was holding it. So the importance lies in the fact that it was not in his pocket or somewhere he might keep it normally. It was probably in his hand when he died and fell out when he hit the floor.”

“Do you think the person who shot him wanted the die?” Ms. Washburn asked. “Then why not pick it up after the shooting?”

“Precisely why I think theft was not the motive,” I answered. “No, I think the die next to Richard's body delivered another type of message entirely. I think it was a warning.”

Ms. Washburn thought that over. “A warning to whom?” she asked.

“To Tyler.”

Now in Mason's living room, with the sounds of Tyler's movements audible from a room upstairs, Ms. Washburn had asked whether an interview with Mason's brother would be possible. “I don't think he'll talk to you,” Mason answered.

“Why not?” she asked.

But the answer was forthcoming. Tyler's footsteps—indeed more like stomping—could be heard on the stairs to our left. Before he was visible, however, his vocalization of “nnnnnnn” preceded him into the room.

“That's why not,” Mason said.

Tyler walked into the room, saw us, and started to shake violently. Clearly Ms. Washburn and I did not hold especially pleasant memories for him. It was technically understandable, but not logical. We were simply the bearers of news he had disliked.

I had no idea how to placate him to a point that he could communicate with us. I have experienced moments during which I was too agitated to speak coherently. But I have not had the kind of difficulty Tyler had clearly been living with since Richard Handy was shot. Seeing Ms. Washburn and me seemed to exacerbate the problem.

Luckily, she has some experience dealing with those of us with autism spectrum behaviors. “It's okay, Tyler,” she said. “We're not here to do anything but help. Can you tell us how we can help you?”

“Nnnnnnnnnnnnn … ”

“Okay,” Ms. Washburn continued, not acknowledging any special difficulty with Tyler's speech. “We can't do it that way, so maybe there's another way. Can you write for us on that pad there?” She pointed to a legal pad that had been left on the table in the adjacent dining room. No doubt Mason had been trying to work out either Tyler's best course of defense or how he would pay Swain to provide it.

But Tyler shook his head violently; no, there would be no writing. His hands went to the sides of his head and vibrated with frustration. It was a feeling I could recognize.

“Wait,” Mason said quietly. “What about the iPad?” He walked to a cabinet nearby and extracted the tablet computer from a drawer. Mason brought the tablet to Tyler and extended his hand. “Want to talk on that for a while?”

Strikingly, Tyler stopped his frantic motion and looked at the iPad. He reached his hand out and took it from his brother. He immediately sat on a bench in front of a piano that did not look like it had been played in some time and began tapping the screen with a great air of purpose.

When he stopped, he turned the iPad toward Ms. Washburn. I moved to her side to see the message he had typed.

It read,
I shot Richard. I shot him with the gun.

Mason shrugged. “We've been getting that a lot.” Then he turned to his brother. “Tyler, is Molly your girlfriend? Why didn't you tell me?” Even in the light of Tyler's impending trial for murder, this seemed to be the priority for Mason.

Tyler stared at him, then pointed at the iPad again. He was focusing on the issue and insisting he had shot Richard Handy.

“No, you didn't,” I told Tyler. “You didn't shoot Richard. You were on the other side of the store when that happened. So tell me, why are you taking the blame for a terrible crime you didn't commit?”

Tyler stared at me for three seconds, the longest he had ever made eye contact in my experience. Then he pointed at the iPad again as if to reinforce the message he had keyed in.

I shook my head. “That is not the truth. Please do not insult my intelligence.”

“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said softly. Mason Clayton looked at me as if I had slapped his brother's face.

I have spent enough time being talked about while present in a room with other people. I have known what it is like to be given “special treatment” that was sincerely intended to “soften the blow” of my “disability” but ended up simply solving the short-term problem and doing nothing to help me develop useful skills. Mother never treated me like someone with an affliction, but doctors, teach
ers, administrators, and even some personnel at the college I at
tended would choose to follow their own instincts without ever challenging mine. The progress I have made has been largely attributable to Mother, Dr. Mancuso, and myself. And Dr. Mancuso insists that I have done most of the hard work on my own.

So when I did not coddle Tyler Clayton it was not out of cruelty, although his feelings were not my paramount concern. I needed the answers to questions if I could answer the one I had been commissioned to research. Tyler held some if not all of them. Getting through his defenses, including those that others were encouraging, was imperative.

I pointed again to the iPad. “Please. Tell me why you are taking the blame.”

Tyler took the tablet and began using it again. When he turned the screen back toward me this time, it read,
I was angry because Richard was not my friend. I shot him.

I repeated shaking my head. “You did not. Your voice is too far away from the directional microphones recording sound when Richard was shot. You were not close enough to have done it. What were you doing?”

Ms. Washburn and Mason seemed mesmerized, although concern showed on their faces. I imagine they did not know whether they should intervene, but for the first time since coming home from jail, Tyler's answers were more than the simple repetition of his confession.

Angrily he grabbed the iPad from its position and started typing again. Perhaps this time his emotion getting the best of him, which was what I was hoping would happen. If Tyler did not have the time to censor himself, it was more possible to get accurate information.

This time when he turned it back, it read,
I didn't see who shot him.

“Show that to your brother,” I suggested, even as Ms. Washburn was craning her neck over my shoulder to see it.

Mason walked toward Tyler, who did as I had said. Upon seeing the words, his eyes watered a bit and he seemed to reach toward Tyler, who backed away instinctively. Mason held up his hands to show he knew better than to try to hug his brother.

“Where were you?” I asked. “What were you doing?”

Tyler's mouth twitched. He looked at the iPad, put a determined look on his face, and then looked intently at the floor. “I … I went to the counter,” he said.

That was a breakthrough, certainly, but I didn't have time for Tyler's personal progress at this moment. “But you weren't close enough to the security camera on that side to be heard more clearly,” I said, mostly explaining the discrepancy to myself.

“Yeah.” Tyler wasn't going to start reciting soliloquies anytime soon. His work to begin speaking spontaneously again would be a long one and require a good deal of work, but he had taken a very large step in the past minute.

The best strategy, then, was to word questions in a way that would require the least effort on Tyler's part to answer. “Were you looking the other way when the shots were fired?” I asked.

Tyler nodded.

“Were there any other customers in the store at the time?”

Tyler nodded and held up his fingers: Two.

“Did you know them?”

He shook his head.

I was operating completely on speculation at this point, and that was not going to be a fruitful avenue of questioning. I could not determine how to construct a question that could be answered in one syllable on the subject, so I pointed to the iPad again and said to Tyler, “How did you end up with the gun in your hand standing over Richard Handy's body?”

His eyes narrowed with effort. He touched areas on the screen again, this time taking longer than he had before. This was going to be a longer message, I assumed.

But my hopes were not borne out.
I don't know
was what Tyler had typed on the screen.

That led to one conclusion but it was not one I could pursue at this moment. “Thank you, Tyler,” I said. I started for the door, hearing Ms. Washburn make our socially conventional farewells to Mason and promising he would hear from us soon. I noted that she did not make the same assurance to Tyler, but she did say good-bye to him on the way to the door.

Once we were outside, she spoke to me quietly but urgently. “You know something now, don't you?” she asked.

I had always known some things, so I extrapolated her question as one asking if Tyler's information had been helpful in the research of Mason's question. I nodded.

“Care to share?” Ms. Washburn asked.

I had nothing to share, as I do not carry chewing gum or any other such treat with me, so I stopped on the sidewalk in front of Mason Clayton's house. “Share?”